Solweig's Song
by Topgallant
Summary: Mordor is gone, but the men of the East mass once again, determined to conquer the lands they nearly claimed. Harad, Khand and Rhûn march towards the West in a renewed call for war. King Elessar musters his people, but hope comes from unexpected places.
1. Prologue

**Post-ROTK: The threat of Mordor is gone forever, but it still casts shadows upon the land. The men of the East mass once again, determined to conquer the lands they so nearly claimed. Harad, Khand and Rhûn march towards the West in a renewed call for war. King Elessar musters his people, but he suspects that it will not be enough to prevail against this one last remnant of the great darkness. It seems as though his reign in Gondor will fail before it ever really began, but hope has a tendency to come from unexpected places.  
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_Mail-shirt did not serve _

_The young spear-man; and shield was withered _

_Back to the boss by the billow of fire;_

_But when the blazing had burnt up his own, _

_The youngest stepped smartly to take the cover of his kinsman's. Then did that kingly warrior _

_Remember his deeds again and dealt out a sword-blow _

_With his full strength; it struck into the head with annihilating weight. But Nægling snapped, _

_Failed in the battle, Beowulf's sword of ancient grey steel. _

_Fate had not granted that the iron sword would help._

_-The Saga of Beowulf  
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Motes of wretched grey ash dusted the air, cloying and choking as they drifted through the pallid night sky. The particles were nearly imperceptible against the backdrop of the burning pyre, from which heat radiated so strongly that it elicited pinpricks of perspiration on the faces and necks of all those who lingered too closely. The biting flames licked at the piled wood with great ardor, twisting in lugubrious wreaths of fire as they consumed the figures on the apex of the pyre. The two bodies were difficult to ascertain, looking like little more than splotchy black outlines against the midnight blue sky that evening had wrought.

The assemblage that gathered at its base was a small one, filled mainly with women, both the old and the maidenly, and children who were yet too young to speak. The faces of the mourners were grey and drawn, filled with the same featureless tight-lipped mouths and weary eyes. Too many burials, too many burnings. These were the mothers, sisters, wives and daughters of the men who died on the blood-soaked Pelennor Fields. These were the widows, the forlorn, the fatherless, the brotherless.

Not a single woman present wailed against the fate of the two dead soldiers, not a single woman tore at her hair or her garments in grief, or even offered a comforting word. There had simply been too much death to feel much of anything, their heartstrings having long ago ripped callously away and left to bleed out on in the sun. Every one of those women had suffered a loss felt more keenly than the pain of a knife to the heart ever would.

A song of mourning rose from their throats all the same, ancient rites adhered to and tales of glory and heroes intermingling with the rising smoke of the pyre. Both bardic saga and undulating flame united in a chorus of death and sorrow. One woman among those gathered did not sing, however. She stood apart from the others, wrapped in a threadbare black shawl that she pulled tighter around her shoulders, feeling chilled despite the palpable heat of the fire. She stared emptily, unseeing, at the deceased soldiers whose doublets and cloaks smoldered and singed. Water pricked the corners of her eyes, but she could not tell whether it was from grief or from pain of the smoke which billowed around them all in a lofty plume.

At her breast, a babe suckled. Not yet two months old, the infant had never known its father and elder brother before the two had ridden off at the call of war. The woman glanced down at her sole remaining child, cradling its head and body as if no gift could be more precious…or transient. She could not bring herself to look upon the pyre again, for doing so would be as to looking upon the shattered remnants of a life that seemed lost so long ago. If not for the unnamed sweetling who nestled his head against the soft curve of her breast, she would have been utterly alone in the world, a widowed woman with an empty house.

She was not an uncomely creature, not yet too matronly to be considered unattractive. She bore the pale wheat hair so common to the people of the Riddermark, just as the wispy strands of hair that stretched thinly over the scalp of her infant was the very same color of chaff. She held claim through marriage to an old house of the Horselords, a family line as ancient as West Emnet itself, even though the lordly title and manse were all that remained of the hollow legacy. She knew that suitors may soon linger of her threshold (whatever males may have been fortunate enough to survive, at least). Indeed, she had little doubt of it, for even though she was no longer a maiden, she was not yet too old to bear fruit. Her son was example enough of that. The woman held him tighter against her chest, as if to ward away ill thoughts.

And yet...she had seriously considered the concept of accepting propositions all the same. A practical, pragmatic woman, she knew she would do well in a home filled with an able husband and more children at her feet, especially if the man should come with horse and plow and food enough to lay on the table. But she could not think of such things, not so soon after Éogarn and Éohilm languished on a bed of charcoal and wood.

The babe, having drank his fill, unlatched from her engorged teat and lolled back, content. He drifted off, dozing peacefully.

She touched her forehead to her sleeping child's, praying for her lost son and husband to join their forefathers in the Great Hall. Praying was all she could do for them now. Although she grieved deeply, as she gazed upon her babe, she knew that she couldn't linger among thoughts of the dead.

Not when she had the living to live_ for_.

* * *

><p><em>Seven months later<em>

The women still gossiped. They milled about beneath windowsills, clicking their tongues and casting furtive glances at the ancient longhall that stood upon the golden plains of West Emnet. The banner of her husband's clan snapped and rolled in the wind, golden sparrowhawk soaring over a field of green.

"Her manse and fields will surely fall into disrepair come autumn. She'll have no one to collect the harvest, and then she'll starve to death. Her and her child."

"She was always a burden on the House of Gallgoídil, a whey-faced daughter of a freed thrall. Did you know that? And then, the hubris of marrying into a noble family!"

"She was always no good; I knew it plain as day when I first laid eyes on her."

"I doubt that son of hers is the legitimate heir at all. She likely cuckolded her husband even as the poor man died in battle."

The words were flung disparately back and forth, each new round generating a mass of renewed theories and muttered invectives. The women were matronly but not old, bodies stooped prematurely from a life burdened with hardships and too many children borne of their loins. They were the offspring and wives of noble Thanes, and they misliked the widowed mother who toiled on the steppes of her fields, bent over the crops with her babe in a sling across her back. Few – if any – among their insular number knew the woman personally. None wished to. These proud daughters of Rohan could not comprehend that the child of a thrall counted among their ranks. Their hushed whispers had long been exchanged in secrecy. Now, however, with the lord Éogarn departed from this land of the living, their repressed resentment exploded into outright hatred. The child of a freeman they could abide, but the child of a released slave made their stomachs churn. They remembered well the union of Éogarn, scion of House Gallgoídil and Solweig, she who was sired by parents with not so much as a scrap of fabric to swaddle her in. And so, with shrewd eyes as sharp as a crow's, the women looked out across the flaxen fields to the manse of House Gallgoídil, waiting for the moment that it would fall into ruin.

* * *

><p>Water sloughed out of the bucket and splashed against the hem of her dress, eliciting a piquant curse from the Lady Solweig. The water quickly soaked her from ankle to thigh, and not enough liquid remained for a trip back inside the house to cook or drink or wash with. She turned round, frustrated with herself for the generation of more work. It was a cold day, wind whistling across the plains like some howling beast. Fastred, although a healthy, red-cheeked babe, was growing quickly and his added plumpness weighed upon her heavily. Barely seven months of age and already with a full head of hair, he was a sweet-faced little one, golden peachfuzz replaced by the russet brown curls of his father. It nearly made Solweig weep to see it.<p>

With the wind nipping at her hair and face, the labors of her tedious work and the baby she carried on her back exhausted her. She had an ache deep down to the marrow, and she felt like an old woman. All the same, the familiar monotony of her tasks gave her a small pit of warmth in her chest. The simple nature of her mundane chores made life regain some of its normalcy, even though her struggles increased.

Solweig refilled the buckets carefully with water from the well and readjusted the shoulder yoke from which the two wooden pails dangled. It was no small feat to carry its load, especially with Fastred's added weight. She planted one slipper ahead of the other carefully, finding sure purchase on the uneven ground as she made her way back to the longhall. This journey was short, not even ten-dozen paces from the manse, but each step was an endeavor. Solweig grit her teeth, her jaw clamped tight in concentration. Her feet shuffled forward without pause, but every motion caused her pain. Her neck felt ready to snap, and her shoulders quivered under all that which needed bearing.

She missed her strong Éohilm, her gentle, strong Éohilm who sang as he helped his father around the house, who still kissed his mother lightly on the cheek although he was already a man. He would oft be the one to carry the buckets to the hall on his steady shoulders. How like his father he had been, with a bright, gleaming smile and infinite patience. Éohilm was so much like Éogarn in that respect – never quick to anger or to bring in sharp words. The men of her family were of a much sweeter temperament than Solweig ever had been.

Éogarn, her loving mate, her noble husband, always had laughter in his eyes and joy in his heart. He was her rock, lifting her up when her own spirits dropped low with despair. They supported one another throughout their marriage, even through her miscarriage when they lost their first child before it had ever been born. Then, when their daughter Asta had died in infancy, not a few months after birth, Solweig had given up hope on ever seeing a child grow to adulthood. She could not abide by the thought of losing a third babe. Éogarn had been the one to encourage her, to ease her wounded soul. When finally Éohilm was born, she knew joy again and raised him at her breast, disdaining of nursemaids who offered to take her place. If Éogarn ever thought Solweig's ways queer for this, he never showed it, accepting her needs without comment or complaint.

As time passed, Éohilm grew into a strong, lusty child who toddled about anywhere and everywhere he could. Yet, when no seed quickened in her womb once again, Solweig's old worries returned. Had she gone barren? She was young yet, and had been quite fertile before. There were still many years left to bear children – so why was it that her belly did not grow? Why did her courses remain stable? She would have loved more than anything to find it interrupted, to feel the sickness of early pregnancy. They tried for fourteen years after Éohilm's birth, lucklessly. Solweig gave up hope once again, despite her husband's soft protestations. But one day, not long before Éogarn's safe return from the battle of the Hornburg, she realized that she was with child. He later used the battle as an example to never fall into anguish and disconsolate torment.

_Even in the darkest times, against the strongest odds, as long as we yet breathe, there is still hope. _

Solweig dropped to the ground, heedless that Fastred began to stir at the movement. She covered her face in her hands and sobbed in great, wracking heaves, letting out the emotions that she hadn't yet bared since word of her husband's death had reached her. To think of Éogarn brought her too much pain to bear. Her face glistened wetly with the sheen of smeared tears; floodgates of her carefully guarded sentiments let loose for the first time after so long a wait.

Fastred grew fussy at the disturbance and began to wail. Solweig, sniffling, unhooked the yoke, placing the buckets carefully upright as she unslung Fastred and put him to her breast. His protestations finally abated, little fist curling around his mother's finger as he relaxed. Solweig ruminated on her husband's words, feeling calmed by the placid face of her youngest and only living child. She was struck with a fierce love and a sensation of maternal protectiveness so strong that she was almost taken aback by the candor of her feelings.

She stroked the fine, downy curls of his smooth little head and hummed tunelessly. She knew she would need to travel to Edoras by the end of the week, where King Éomer of House Eorl held council. Solweig would stand in her husband's place and bear his duties as best she could. It was not a lady's task to do, but there were no menfolk left in Éogarn's line, and all her own kin were of the peasantry.

Solweig sighed, bone-weary and displeased at the prospect of facing talk in the town. She was a popular subject among conversation these days, even though she would prefer to leave them – and be left – well enough alone.

When her boy was done, she put Fastred back in the sling, she picked up the yoke and carried on with her day. She wasted enough idle time thinking already.

The tears dried, forgotten, on her cheeks. Work had to be done.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **

First of all, although this is categorized as 'bookverse', I may mix between the movie and books alternately, such as how Glorfindel saved Frodo when he was stabbed by the Morgul blade, but the people of Gondor were not evacuated given lack of leadership in the movie. This is done for no reason other than to adjust to my needs in expanding upon the ending events of ROTK.**  
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You must pardon the similarities between the names Éogarn and Éohilm – I simply thought it appropriate, given how half the people introduced in LOTR are (for example) 'Hamil, son of Hama' or 'George, son of Georg', right? So, to clarify – Éohilm is the dead son, and Éogarn is Solweig's husband. Yes, she's an OC. We'll see how she develops over the next few chapters. Given that this is only the prologue, I expect the next installments will be longer and less abstract in thematic quality.

Wait, you say! Where's Aragorn, you ask? Well, he'll be around, but not for some time. He'll have his moments, don't fret. You may see many of the canon characters in unexpected places. Just keep a weather eye on the horizon, love.


	2. In the Hall of the Mountain King

_Then glory in battle to Hrothgar was given,_

_Waxing of war-fame, that willingly kinsmen_

_Obeyed his bidding, till the boys grew to manhood,_

_A numerous band. It burned in his spirit_

_To urge his folk to found a great building,_

_A mead-hall grander than men of the era_

_He is eager to build a great hall in which he may feast his retainers_

_Ever had heard of, and in it to share_

_With young and old all of the blessings_

_The lord had allowed him, save life and retainers._

_Then the work I find afar was assigned_

_To many races in middle-earth's regions,_

_To adorn the great folk-hall. _

_-The Saga of Beowulf_

The next few days passed much same as the days preceding, bitterly cold and bitterly wearying. All too quickly, however, came the morn when Solweig must ride to Edoras and take her place at the king's council. From landholders of minor properties to lords of fiefdoms in the Riddermark, all would bring their concerns to the new king, and petitions and disputes would be dealt with. Or not. But it was the only day for representation, and she had a special request to make before the former Marshall of the Mark.

She awoke early in the morning, not long after the sun began its long, slow march towards its zenith. She brushed her long hair, ridding it of snags and tangles. Thoughts of Éogarn came to mind, unbidden. She recalled the touch of his hand on her bare flesh as though he were still there, still next to her. She had loved the look of his hands, tanned and calloused. A working man's hands, she had said then. An honest man's hands, like her father Fastred had been. Éogarn had smiled and ran his fingers through her hair, smooth from the ministrations given by the bristles of her comb. He kissed the pale yellow strands on her head. _This is my treasure_, he had murmured in her ear. _This is my golden hoard of riches._

Solweig slammed her brush upon the table and left it there.

* * *

><p>After finishing her morning routine, she went outside and saddled her horse, a stout bay mare that whickered as Solweig approached. The old girl was fair-humored and had a smooth gait, although her spine and haunches had become more noticeably bony in later years. Éogarn's charger had fallen in battle. It was customary for the Rohirrim to be sent to their Fathers' halls with their horse as well, but Éogarn's steed had been lost on the battlefield, separated far from its master. Éogarn would just have to make due walking to the Great Hall. Solweig almost smiled at the thought.<p>

Mounting her horse with Fastred safely in place, she urged the mare into a trot, one hand gripping the reins and the other holding fast to the leads of the pony that trailed behind, laden with her pack and supplies. Edoras was not more than a few hours steady ride, but she had a plan in mind and the will to see it through.

The discordant murmur of a hundred voices filled the pilastered Golden Hall of Meduseld, a cacophonous mix of rugged rumblings and the chink of tankards. The King had not yet granted an audience to the multitudinous collection gathered there. The air was thick with acrid smoke from pipes and the torchlight was hazy. Through the murk, halos of orange-red light bloomed around each sconce. Despite the high afternoon sun that peaked overhead outside, no such natural light reached the inside of the hall beyond the small slitted square in the roof through which the smoke lazily wafted. Although the atmosphere was rank with their raucous merriment, an underlying sense of grief flowed beneath the pretense of joviality. The lords who gathered today were too few in number, too old or too young. Many bore the first scars of battle, but many more now carried scars afresh, new wounds torn open over old hurts that had never fully healed.

A dozen serfs waited outside, eager for news detailing those men on whose behalf they toiled in the lands. Horses stamped and whinnied in the stables affixed to the hall, filled almost to capacity given the abundance of the equine lords who visited from their sundry lands. A pair of thin, ragged mutts squabbled in the yard, splashing through a muddy puddle, contesting ownership of a meatless chicken bone, picked clean already by the birds. The dogs tussled and snapped, biting at each other's flank and muzzle. A dirty child squatted next to a tenement and watched the altercation with age-old eyes. Food was scarce in the lands of Rohan after the war, for the women who did not attend to the dead, dying or injured had children to look after and could do little more than to tend the few crops that survived the parching, arid heat of summer. The effects of the war lasted well beyond March, leading to an autumn lacking the kind of abundance needed to sustain even a reduced population. The feeble pickings were barely enough to last through the winter, which had fallen upon the people of Rohan like a roaring white-crested wave, washing over them and dragging them into the briny deep. They struggled to stay afloat in the wake of this tide, struggled to live through the black, howling nights.

The smaller, mangier dog was finally chased away by the larger bitch, who nipped at its heels as it fled. She let loose a few short, ragged barks of warning before settling down to gnaw on the bone. She had white around her muzzle, and her grey coat lost its lustrous sheen of health. The people of the Riddermark were not the only ones who starved.

The child watched as the bitch worried at the chicken's remains and licked at his chapped lips. He toyed with the idea of throwing rocks at the dog to chase her away, giving himself a chance, perhaps, to bite into the bone and suck out the marrow, but there wouldn't be enough to sustain him. Even the child knew that. He remained in his crouch, eyes hooded with hunger.

It was up this steep slope that Solweig bade her horse mount; urging the mare up until they reached the steps of Meduseld. She dismounted, giving both horse and pony to a groom that led them away to the already overcrowded stables. The ground was kicked up and torn, clods of earth scattered by the hooves of so many animals. She chanced a glance at the filthy boy and was shocked to see him squatting in the nude. He returned her stare with a grim, fearless look, challenging her to say something about his poverty. Solweig tore her gaze away, disturbed.

She carried Fastred in her arms as she mounted the steps to the king's palais. She nearly choked when she entered, the bitter smoke being the first stench that made itself apparent. The second was the odor of dozens of men cramped together in an ill-lit hall. It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the muddled gloom, but soon she espied other women beyond herself. Many were wives who had accompanied their lordly husbands, but many more were little more than girls, garbed in fine samite robes with lovely silken cords tied about their slender waists. Solweig looked upon them haughtily. As fair as their supple bodies may be, they had breasts too pink and small for babes to sup at, and hips too narrow to easily bear children. And yet Solweig quenched a feeling of envy.

She wove through the messy din, seeking shelter from the chaotic movement that had overtaken the usually quiet hall. When finally she reached the end, Solweig was pleased to see that the grand seat was still unoccupied. She still had time. Solweig found a column against which she could lean and nurse Fastred without being jostled too much by the crowd as she waited – as they all waited – for the king's appearance.

But time crawlingly passed. It seemed that after an hour in this wretched madhouse, the new lord of Rohan was not wont to be timely. Her spot, carefully chosen though it was, offered few benefits of a haven in this roaring din. Her toes had been stepped on countless times, she had been bumped against and shoved and deafened when a man's bellowing shout rang in her ears. She had become practically blinded by the smoke, which was, by now, a steamy haze that rose up out of the single open cut in the roof, for just such occasions. While the Golden Hall was magnificent and seemingly boundless in grandeur, it was still but a common building that could not magically expand at its master's whims. It was simply not meant to be host to so many thanes – and their pipes – at once.

The athelings were not intentionally so mindless of space and property, but the teeming masses and the chalices of ale, mead and cider that were being passed freely around made their blood boil and dulled the wits of those that downed a glass too many.

For all of Solweig's discomfort, she was amazed by the docility of Fastred. She expected him to squall the moment she passed beyond the mantle of the hall, but the babe slept soundly, thumb in mouth. She was overcome with affection and nuzzled his soft neck with her nose. He certainly smelled far better than did the slabs of meat and leather that permeated everything else.

There was a sudden, loud bang that resounded in the far entrance of the hall. Solweig's head shot up. The commotion died quickly, for that sound had been hard to miss, even when competing with the cacophonous racket. She turned around, peering around the edge of the column and over the heads of the men, but she could not see who it was that entered. She did not need to.

"Make way!" shouted a rider from the Éored. It seemed that this man was from the king's own company. "Make way for Éomer King!" The crowd parted reluctantly. The troop pushed past the bewildered earls, clustered so tightly that Solweig could not even seen the King in their midst. She had never made any formal introductions to the nephew of Théoden, Lord of the House of Eorl, but she had glimpsed the young Marshall on many occasions. The last time she had seen him, she realized with a clenched knot in her stomach, was when Éogarn and Éohilm rode off under his command. She edged closer to the chair, eager for a look.

He seemed…tired. It was clear that the King had been riding. His horsehair helmet still in hand, he stood before the throne dressed not in robes of the state, but in armor. _This _was a King that would defend their lands, as the last had done. This was a King that would not sit idle on the throne as his soldiers patrolled his lands. In concert, the thanes and their ladies paid obeisance to their leader. Solweig dipped into a curtsy, which inadvertently roused Fastred.

Éomer was dirty and sweaty from his ride, covered in the same dust as all his legionnaires. He had clearly not wholly abandoned his former calling as a Marshall, that much was certain. After the bows and curtsies straightened, Éomer nodded and took his seat. He began his address.

"My lords!" His voice carried effortlessly to the end of his hall for all to hear. "I come to you now from the Eastfold with grave news." The quietude in the hall, which had previously been respectful, now deepened to a deadened silence. "According to reports of Gondorian sentries from the Crossing of Poros, it would seem that the Southrons are restless."

Fastred, awakened from his nap, grew fussy and restless. "Hush, child." Solweig shushed him, straining to hear the report. "Hush, shhhshhh." She only managed to catch but a few snatches of the King's words between Fastred's mewling and the vapid giggles of a minor earl's woman who stood at her side. Solweig spared a glance at the couple and noted with disgust that he had her pressed up against the wall, fondling her breasts and plump buttocks as they listened – sparingly – to the King.

"—May remember that our own King Folcwine of Rohan fought alongside Steward Túrin II of Gondor against the onslaught of—"

Fastred squirmed, fists beating against anything he could. He cried helplessly, distracting Solweig further. The earl's wife (although she was not even that much, perhaps) sniffed at Fastred's disturbance, but at least her asinine squeals of pleasure and delight had stopped.

"Keep your brat quiet," hissed the earl with rancid breath.

"So long as you keep your whore quiet," Solweig shot back in a furious whisper. Drunk the man may be, he was still beneath the roof of the King, and could do her no violence. He drew back, scowling. He would sober eventually, and then he would be ashamed.

Or so Solweig hoped.

Giving Fastred her forefinger on which to suck, she tried to hear the last of the King's words, but it seemed that the information he had gathered from his ride had already passed. At least Fastred was mollified now, for the infant's cries had ceased.

"Let all who now wish to come before the Lord of the Golden Hall present themselves!" announced the Éored rider.

A tall lord several paces in front of Solweig began to advance, poised to speak. Solweig rushed forward, literally pushing past a landholder and an earl in her haste to be the first to address the King. "Here, my lord!" she cried, one arm raised high above her head.

"Come forward," said the King.

She was nearly breathless from adrenaline. She knew that what she had to say must be done before others claimed their turn. She curtsied deeply before the massive throne, head inclined in respect.

"My lord, I am Solweig of House Gallgoídil, made husbandless by the War of the Ring." She felt, rather than saw, the murmur of the women she had passed on her way in. They knew what she had to say, and they disliked it. "I seek to announce before your authority my great need in finding a new lord to claim the title to my lands and estate. I have neither servants nor plow, and but one mare and pony. I am not the only woman widowed, this I realize." By the sound of the angrily rustling gowns, she was all _too _aware of that. "May I address the company, my lord?"

The King dipped his head slightly, golden crown winking when it caught the light of the torches.

She faced the council assemblage.

"There may be fairer girls, sweeter girls, girls whose lithe bodies have yet to be deflowered. They may have voices of a lark or softer hands, but I am a wife, my lord thanes. I can mend. I can cook. I can unlace your doublet and boots and hang your buckler upon the wall when you are tired, or give you comfort and warmth when the night is cold and dark. My husband's legacy may not be much, but you'll be granted a title, if you do not yet have one, and a healthy son that you may raise as your own. These things I can give you." Her voice fell. "Nothing more have I to offer than that."

She turned back to the King and curtsied one final time before departing. She brushed apologetically past the tall man she had interrupted, but Solweig glowed. The competition for husbands who were able to care for widowed women and their children would be fierce after winter's chills melted into spring, and she had placed her name at the top of the list. However treacherous it seemed to Éogarn's memory, she ached with need to lie in a warm bed again, to be the support for a husband who could bring fresh servants, horses, tools and protection to her household. It was all she could do for Fastred's safety.

As she exited Meduseld, Solweig blinked at the brightness of the outside sun, blinding her after the gloom of the hall.

"My lady!" One of the serfs that had lingered in the yard outside approached her as she descended the steps. "My lady, pray tell repeat what the King had to say?" Seeing their comrade approach a noblewoman, his companions joined him in a knot around her, peppering Solweig with a good measure of questions before she ever had a chance to so much as answer one. They tugged at her sleeves and grabbed at her arms.

"What news?"

"Please tell us, mum, we've got to know!"

"Will Rohan be attacked?"

"What's to be done with the stockpiles of food?"

A guard on the palace steps, seeing this, held his spear aloft threateningly. "Get back from her, you lot, before I run you through!" They departed at his words, unenthusiastically.

Solweig was grateful for the intervention, for she would have been unable to provide any accurate information anyway. It seemed that all of Rohan was agitated by news of a possible Eastern horde massing to the southeast. It did not bode well. Solweig felt a sudden chill, and was glad for the sun. She basked in it for a spell, head uplifted, eyes closed. It seemed, in that precious moment, that Rohan was whole again, and the end of the Great Eye meant the end of his dark armies, but it seemed that the troubles of the Western lands had not yet ended. She hoped they hadn't only just begun.

Solweig retrieved her horse and pony from the stable, tossing the groom a small piece of silver for his trouble, and carefully walked her mounts down the hill. She had a mind to pay a visit to Holgier, a widower who had lost his wife to illness two winters past. He was younger than Solweig and recently remarried. She heard tell that his wife was with child and due by the end of the month. If these rumors held any credence, her luck of the day might just hold through.

Upon reaching Holgier's fair estate on the slope, Solweig raised a hand to knock upon his door when the man himself called out, raising a hand in greeting. She smiled, relieved, and picked up her skirts as she made her way to him. Holgier's pretty wife kept a garden behind the manse, where the couple now lounged, waving out to her. Solweig had seen the garden when she had last visited Holgier and his bride on the day of their union. It was the previous spring, and the vegetables had been so large and ripe that Solweig marveled. The barren, rocky soil of Edoras seemed utterly unable to support any life, but Dagna had somehow coaxed the plants into bearing sweet gifts, but the ground was touched by frost now, and not even Dagna's able hands could bring life to it…not until the next bloom, at least.

"Look at you," Solweig breathed. "Look at you, my lovely girl!" Dagna rose unsteadily, supported on the arm of her blushing husband. Her belly was voluminous and round. The first-time mother was flushed with radiance. Solweig and Dagna embraced. "You must not have long now," Solweig remarked after they broke apart.

Dagna blushed as red as her husband. "But come; let me see your son, Solweig." Dagna pressed gently. Solweig removed him from her sling and trusted him to Dagna's soft arms.

"He's the image of your husband." Said Holgier in amazement.

"Yes," murmured Solweig, smiling. "Down to the hair and the nose. Even his ears, I think."

Fastred looked about himself alertly.

"He has your eyes, though." Dagna said as she held the boy. "So wide and blue, and even a little stubborn looking."

Solweig laughed. "Yes, he has my eyes. And he makes as much of a fuss about things as I do when he is roused too early from his slumber."

"So come, Solweig. What brings you to our home? As much as I appreciate your visit, I cannot think that it is without cause." Holgier noted.

"I'm afraid that's true. Since the death of Éogarn, it has been a great struggle to till and sow the fields, to carry the water, to maintain the estate. ..these are not tasks I can do alone with a child so young. I need help, but I haven't the servants or children to aid me."

Dagna looked up, her exquisite doe-like eyes worried but patently understanding.

"I'm afraid we have little to offer you in the way of servants or beasts of burden, but we will help you as best we can." Holgier said, taking Solweig's hands in his own.

"I thank you, Holgier." Solweig replied. She gave his hands a squeeze but withdrew her own, clasping them together in white-knuckled anxiety. "It is not easy to part from him…but I cannot care for Fastred, my son. Not now. Not until after the winter, when my affairs are settled and I can take into account all the purchases that must needs be made. I hope to find myself a husband as well, which was my purpose in coming here today."

"Not your only purpose." Holgier said with a bob of his head. "You wish us to care for Fastred until you are able yourself?"

"I do." Solweig raised herself erect.

"You need only ask."

"I will raise him with my own child, I promise you this." Dagna adjoined.

Solweig exhaled the breath she did not realize she had been holding. "Thank you. Thank you both. This means more to me than you know."

"We understand, Solweig," said Holgier. "We will care for him as long as you need us to. We are in Edoras, not the far reaches of West Emnet, and so all our comforts will be availed to him."

Tears pricked at Solweig's eyes. "Here—" she jerked on the reins, bringing forth the pony. She unlatched one of the saddlebags and offered it to Holgier. "His belongings. There should be clothes, his blanket, sundry items and…oh, by Béma!" She clapped a hand to her head. "I should have carried along his bassinet, but I knew not whether you would be home, or whether Dagna should be with child, or perhaps you would not take him in, and so I would have carried it along for nothing…I'll go fetch it, I should be back by nightfall!"

Holgier chuckled. "We will manage, I should think. We have room enough to keep him safe and happy. All you need is to send us word when you wish to reclaim him."

"But perhaps we won't give him back!" Dagna laughed as she played with the baby.

"Thank you both once again. This is…this is a great gift." Solweig said in admiration, her hand on her chest.

"It is the least we can do to ease the hardships of your life. We grieve for your loss. Éogarn was a good man and a good husband. And Éohilm…was taken from you too soon. It's as my lovely wife says. We will care for Fastred as our own." Holgier said, and he and Dagna embraced Solweig in turn.

Mounting her horse, she exchanged more farewells. As she kicked her mare forward, her heart broke to leave her son behind, but she knew it was the best thing that could be done for him now. Someday soon she would reclaim him, she swore it.

As the mare picked her way down the hill, Solweig noticed a blur dart past in her peripheral vision. She looked to the right, surprised to see the wild-eyed, unclothed boy crouching in the shadow of a longhall. This time he was not alone, however. An ancient man with spotted, papery skin bent over the boy like a willow. He said something unintelligible and then the child, after one final baleful glare at Solweig, ran off. The old man spared her no attention and limped away after the boy.

Feeling perturbed, Solweig clucked her tongue and quickened the speed of the trot. She had no sooner reached the gate leading out of Edoras and face the Snowbourn river when a desperate cry of, "My lady!" arose from behind her.

She whirled in her seat, thinking that it was one of the serfs come again to harass her, but it was only a dark-haired man dressed in the clothes of a courier. The insignia sewn into the breast of his garment was too dark to see, but Solweig wondered at this new curiosity. "I don't think I'm the right pers—" she began.

"The lady Solweig of House Gallgoídil?"

She sucked in a breath. "Aye, that would be me."

The courier offered a short bow. "My lady bade me give you this letter."

She took the proffered missive in hand, looking at it wonderingly. "Thank you," she said, when she had regained her wits. "A safe journey home."

"And you, good lady."

She left with a sharp trotting gait, confused and concerned. She could not ascertain the sigil on his vestments, obscured as it was by his dark brown hair.

…Come to think of it, he looked like a man of Gondor.

She kicked her horse to a gallop.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**

So, bonus points to anyone who can find the relation of this chapter's title to the name of this fanfic.

Also, I would like to mention that Béma is a Vala (essentially a god figure to the people of Arda). He is the Huntsman of the Valar, also known as the Great Rider, and his connection to his steed Nahar made him a beloved figure of the Rohirrim.


	3. Over Hill and Over Dale

_The clever folk-leader_

_Stately proceeded: stepped then an earl-troop_

_Of linden-wood bearers. Her footprints were seen then_

_Widely in wood-paths, her way o'er the bottoms,_

_Where she faraway fared o'er fen-country murky,_

_Bore away breathless the best of retainers_

_Who pondered with Hrothgar the welfare of the country._

_-The Saga of Beowulf_

Solweig did not let the gallop abate until well after Edoras has passed beyond the horizon. When her mare began to froth and champ at the bit, tossing her head and foaming, Solweig knew she had pushed her far enough. Although the longhall of Gallgoídil was not yet in sight, she dismounted her bay and allowed the aging creature a restful moment to graze on the grassy hillock. The pony joined in the lusty romping of the horse, leads trailing upon the ground.

Solweig tsked when she inspected herself. The four-shaft twill of her gown was soaked through with sweat. She put quaking fingers to her perspiring brow and felt the heat that radiated from her.

_Silly as a child_, she thought chidingly. _Getting riled over a letter. _She didn't know who it was from, or for what reason.

…_But she suspected_.

Solweig hadn't so much as opened the seal yet and – _the seal! _ Of course, how could she be so thoughtless? Opening the flap of her remaining saddlebag, she fumbled through her belongings before withdrawing the letter. It was fine vellum, and freshly pressed. She leaned close; sniffed it. Not even a few days had passed since the item had been freshly pressed. She took in a deep breath and flipped it, eyeing the seal.

"Aye, and so it is." She murmured to herself. The seal of House Berangár. She knew just who it was, and likely what tidings it carried. She couldn't bear to face it yet, and so she stuffed the thing back in her pack and collapsed to the ground, kicking off her slippers and let her toes and fingers fill with grass. The sun had reached its apex hours ago, and now it sank ever deeper into a bruised purple sky. The heavenly firmament was starless and cloudy, but Solweig loved it just the same. Over the hillock she heard the murmuring babble of the Entwash as it rolled slowly along its course.

She had cut across the southernmost region of West Emnet, often having traversed this path. There were no real roads linking Edoras and its various fiefs, each longhall as scattered and wild as the land itself. Occasionally the peasantry built their shanty huts at the bases of their lords' domains, but no cities as such actually existed in the Mark.

She lifted her skirts, stepping lightly over the mossy ground to let her eyes wander over the river. The muffled gurgling, cushioned by the hill, escalated to an unchecked, roaring gush of water.

Standing on the peak of the hillock and looking down over the vast expanse of wild land, Solweig ruminated on her actions a few hours before, when in the smoky hall of Meduseld. She acted decidedly brazenly, pushing forward and pleading her case with a fervor that surprised even her. She wondered at what a sight she must have been, hair mussed, gown dirty and growing ragged at the trim, a babe held tightly against her. And yet the King had said nothing of all this; he had allowed her to speak her peace.

Her offer felt pale in comparison to the younger, prettier maids and their expansive dowries, and Solweig keenly worried that her prospective suitors would be displeased at the thought of a wife so emboldened. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them tightly. By baring her frank ambition in finding a husband, had she ruined her chances of ever attracting one?

Solweig had pondered these thoughts in the week leading up to the council meeting, deliberating and weighing her options for the best possible outcome. She had, in the end, decided on the open approach of a straight-forward, basic proposition. It seemed to have made its impact on the crowd…

Solweig realized her mistake.

She had not stayed past the gathering, or, indeed, after her own speech. She had simply made her case and left, not the sort of impression liable to make her an attractive prospect. She should have stayed. She should have mingled. She should have done many things that she had not, but nothing could be done to amend that now.

Solweig speculated on the ladies she had seen. A few were plain, homely girls, but the rest had been groomed for the sole purpose of being a nobleman's wife. Coquettish and demure, proud of bearing but chaste…and well-spoken too, no doubt.

Solweig puffed out a burst of air, blowing away the wispy strands of hair that had broken free of their braid during the flight from Edoras.

She knew that she sounded like a country bumpkin. Her manner of speech had been improved during her sixteen years of marriage to Éogarn; he had patiently instructed her in the ways of fine words and even a little reading and writing. It was because of him that she no longer sounded like a half-wit child stumbling over her letters as she read, although it still seemed to take her twice as long to finish a page as anyone else.

Despite her lack of good breeding, Solweig _refused _to believe that her simplistic ways would seriously harm her chances of finding a mate. If anything, perhaps only the ones with a good head on their shoulders would see the advantage in a lady willing to dirty her hands and work as hard as the man.

She had been taught the value of hope from Éogarn, and she was not the sort of woman to easily discard that which she had learned.

At a snort from her horse, Solweig turned back over her shoulder and judged the break long enough. She whistled shrilly, and the mare's ears pricked up.

"Come here, old girl." Solweig approached the mare, running her hands over the long black mane. The horse whinnied, shoving her snout into the crook of Solweig's arm, seeking treats. But Solweig's mind was only on the letter, and on who had sent it. There was no doubt in her mind the authenticity of the seal. It had been some time since she had last been in correspondence with the great House Berangár, and she hoped more time still would have passed before she would have to write to them again. It seemed that they only ever had ill news to exchange, and she very much would have liked to never exchange it at all.

She broke the seal with her thumbnail and unrolled the vellum, and did not realize that her grip had tightened as she read the letter.

It was not addressed to her.

Solweig suppressed a dry sob, flinging the letter to the ground. She pressed her palms to her forehead, nails at her scalp, seething and wounded. She cried out, as if struck by a great pain, and fell to her knees.

The letter had been addressed to Éohilm.

* * *

><p>Solweig returned to her empty home later than she had expected. She did not have the heart to kick the mare and pony to as arduous a cantor as she had when departing Edoras. They simply trotted home a pace both too fast and too slow for her liking all at once.<p>

She dismounted and cared for the equines as if in a dream, shadowy and not fully aware of what her body was doing. She took off the saddles but left blankets for the cold night, and slipped the bags of feed over their heads. She leaned against a fencepost, wooden spike digging into her back, but she was unmindful of the pain. She took a moment to collect herself. Solweig had no appetite for supper, and so decided she would simply do her best to sleep and face the contents of the letter once more in the morning, when she was renewed and fresh.

In her bedchamber, she unlaced her ten-gore dress and slipped lightly out of it, pulling a simple cotton shift over her head. She climbed into her cold bed and did not realize that she still carried the letter with her until the smell of animal skin and wax hit her. She groaned, and put it on the simple wooden nightstand for later perusal after she slept.

But when she closed her eyes, no comforting, cushioned blackness lulled her to sleep. In her mind's eye, all she saw was the same line of words, repeated over and over.

_To Thine Lordship Éohilm Éogarnsson, heir of __Houses__ Berangár and __Gallgoídil,_

_To Thine Lordship Éohilm Éogarnsson, heir of __Houses__ Berangár and __Gallgoídil,_

_To Thine Lordship Éohilm Éogarnsson, heir of __Houses __Berangár and __Gallgoídil,_

Solweig jolted upright, now completely awake. She lit a match, squinted her eyes against the bright flame and set it to the wick of a candle, which allowed her a small nimbus of light by which to see. She reached for the letter, realizing that she would be utterly unable to sleep unless she faced the issue _now_, come what may.

The Rohirrim had no recorded language of their own, passing on all that needed to be remembered through oral tradition and song. This style of address, the speech itself…it was _wintry_, untouched by a speck of human emotion. Solweig shivered just to read it, and she guarded her heart against it. The letter was penned in High Westron, but with a deferential, formal styling that Solweig had always found so remarkably icy. She knew not whether it was commonplace for the people of Gondor to be so frigid in their speech, or whether it was simply a uniqueness of they whose hand had writ it.

_Thine Lordship Éohilm Éogarnsson, heir of __Houses __Berangár and __Gallgoídil,_

_Thou who art first in line for the claimant of the noble House of __Berangár, _

_Mariners of Dol Amroth,_

_Watchmen of the Bay of Belfalas,_

_The people of the shining ships,_

_Thee I summon to Minas Tirith, to be bestowed the rights of Berangár and accept Thy mantle of responsibility. Thy father's death hath availed Thee Thy title and responsibility. _

_Thy lineage gives Thee this right._

_FA 1_

_Lady Lynnea of House __Gallgoídil, née__ Berangár_

Solweig recognized the penmanship from the very first word, and prayed to Béma to protect her from the grandmother of her son.

* * *

><p>She was up before the dawn's light filtered through the slitted windows in the wall, having slept fitfully. Solweig tore through her chest of personal items, throwing three pairs of simple woolen riding dresses to the floor. They made her skin itch terribly and were heavy, but they would keep her warm and made for easy travel.<p>

She reneged on all but one pair of slippers, preferring instead the worn, dusty boots that she would mend before she left, sheathing her husband's hunting knife between stocking and boot. The leather was fine and soft through years of use, but the sole would need to be ripped off and replaced. It was a time-consuming process, but it saved her the expense of buying new boots when the old ones could be repaired for much less. Learning how to conserve resources had been a trick her mother had taught her. Likely as not, Lady Lynnea would frown on it.

It seemed that that Lady Lynnea frowned on most everything related to Solweig, save perhaps Éogarn, her son. Yet even then, Solweig wondered if Lynnea had ever quite forgiven him for his betrothal to a girl born into thralldom, although she had already been a freeman's daughter for most of her life when they had met.

Solweig had never actually seen Lady Lynnea in person, corresponding instead in infrequent messages. The last one she had sent surely had to have been over ten years ago, when Éohilm was only a few years older than Fastred's age now.

Somehow, news of her son's death must have reached Lynnea, but not her grandson's. Although he was a babe, custom surely would have dictated that Fastred receive the titles now being bestowed upon Éohilm – she doubted very much that these were posthumous birthrights.

Éogarn spoke little of his mother in all the years they had been married. She was a Gondorian noblewoman of House Berangár, come to Rohan years ago as a lady-in-waiting to an ambassador's wife from Minas Tirith when they visited the then-King of Meduseld. She had apparently met her husband there, the descendent of the line of Gallgoídil of Rohan.

They wed, but not happily, and she spent much of her time – according to Éogarn – hiring various governesses to raise him and his two younger sisters in the Gondorian fashion. She found all things of Rohan uncouth and foul, having never appreciated the rustic lifestyle.

At her husband's death she had returned promptly and it was there that she stayed.

When Éogarn sent news of his engagement, she claimed inability to travel due to illness and, in an oddly stiff, stilted fashion, wished him the best of happiness with his new wife.

When Solweig later learned writing, shaky though it was, she had tried to bridge the connection to Lady Lynnea, wondering if the woman was simply old and lonely. She originally shared news of her thoughts and interests, encouraging Lynnea to do the same, but a few months later she was rebuffed by a rather critical letter that warned her of her country naivety.

After that incident, Solweig only wrote to announce the births or death of her children, all save the last. She couldn't bear writing about Éogarn and Éohilm's fall, and justified her silence by assuming the old woman would be better off thinking her son still alive.

Well, now Lady Lynnea seemed to demand – not request – a presence, and by Béma, Solweig would give it.

So now she prepared her things and readied the house for her absence. Lynnea might very well be shocked to see her daughter-in-law come in the stead of the grandson she had expected, but Éohilm was dead, Fastred too young, and if someone had to do it, Solweig thought that the wife of Lynnea's son was a fair alternative.

She spent the day riding with horse and pony along the edge of the Entwash once again. Soon she would return to the Snowbourn and be forced to ford it if she could find no other crossing, and then she would be in tucked the Eastfold, beneath the shadow of the White Mountains.

The first half-day had been spent in relative silence, broken only by the clop of the horses' hooves as they overturned stones or stepped on brittle twigs. The afternoon sun failed to warm the day and Solweig was gladdened for her long riding cloak that spread out behind her, over the haunch of her horse. It was a deep spinel blue and flowed like water. It had been a marriage gift from Éogarn's paternal grandfather before he died. It was hard to believe how much time had passed since then, standing like a rock of warding between the dead of the past and the ghosts of the present.

Solweig came to a certain type of peace during this journey, appreciating the magnificent and many-splendored manifestations of nature in the landscape that she passed. In this way, many hours passed until she heard a great clamor ahead. She sent the mare into a brisk cantor, sitting higher in her stirrups as she strained to see the commotion.

There was a ferry before her, floating on the Snowbourn, drawn along by rope and long stick-paddles to push it across to and fro. This was, in itself, not a great surprise – but Solweig was outright amazed at the line of people that pushed and jostled. The ferry was overcrowded with huddled families, leashed goats, cages of hens, and even items of furniture lashed together in a kind of makeshift pack.

She slowed down as the crowd thickened, bulging at the center. Children ran past her heedless of danger, some even driving so close under the feet of the mare that she nearly reared. Solweig would have dismounted for the sake of safety, but she feared being herself trampled in the mass of people. A few adults wandered past her as well, and she tried calling out to them with questions, but they seemed deaf to her plaintive shouts.

Finally she passed a corpulent man with grease on his chin and a rooster under his arm. "Sire," she cried. "Sire!"

His head swiveled, seeking her voice amongst the noise.

Seeing how fine the fabric of her cloak – and ignoring the plainness of dress underneath, or the boniness of her aged steed – he sketched a lopsided bow. "What kin I duh fer yeh, mum?"

"Who are these people? Why and whence they came?"

"Why, they're Rohirrim, mum. Same as yeh or I, I suspect." He stared at her cloak. "Save maybe of a poorer persuasion than yeh."

"But why are they leaving?"

"Why is anyone leaving? There ain't no food to last through the winter, nor warmth nor clean water for drinking. Some go west, through the Gap of Rohan, or so I've 'eard. That's a fool's errand, I says. That won't get yeh anywhere better off than when you left. There ain't nothing for miles around, save the ruins of old Lond Daer, and I heard that t'ain't been used since the Númenóreans. So, they goes off anyway, and all the luck to 'em, but I think they'll starve."

Solweig was quiet for a moment, shocked to silence.

"…These people are refugees?"

"Aye, that they are. There ain't no food left in Rohan, and we're all not of a mind to starve to death before spring comes." Answered the man, with a scratch at his stubble. He ventured a sly guess. "Yeh wouldn't happen to be headin' to Gondor, would yeh? To Minas Tirith?"

Solweig eyed him cautiously.

"I may…why?"

"Well, it seems to me that you're the lady of a nobler sort, and I been wonderin' if when yeh go to Minas Tirith—" At her protestations, he amended, "_If_ yeh go to Minas Tirith, you put in a good word fer me at the city gate, will yeh? Name's Grimfara. Grimfara of East Emnet, remember that, mind yeh. I been hearing some other things too, like the fact that them Gondorians don't like all these peasants at they're gates, due to overcrowdin' and suchlike. Never mind what all we people of the Mark did for them not half a year ago! But their memory seems short. King Elessar does what he can – a fine man, that one, but his attention is on the invasion force rumored to be massin' in the East, and there's little that can be done to help all them lot." He jerked a finger at the peasants on the bridge. "Gondor's got their own people to mind."

But Solweig had stopped listening. "I must get across," she murmured, mostly to herself.

"Aye, yeh and everyone else." He snorted.

She spurred the mare and pony onward, calling thanks over her shoulder as she rode around the group of refugees.

"You remember what Grimfara did for yeh when the time comes, yeh hear?" he shouted after her. When she did not look back, he spat in the dirt, readjusted his clucking rooster and continued on his way.

The ferry had gone to the distant shore and was now back on its way to the peasants still stranded on the wrong side of the Snowbourn. They began to call out to the rivermen, shouting offers and bargains and gifts. In return, the rivermen called back their fixed price.

"Twenty farthings is all we'll take per rider – and that counts property and anything too big to carry on your backs," bellowed the rivermaster. It was clear from his tone that he had been forced to make clear the details countless times that day, and perhaps even in the days before.

"You can't mean that!" a man in the crowd roared. "That's outrageous!"

"You let a group cross an hour ago for fifteen farthings!" protested a woman.

The throng stirred, roiling and agitated.

"Things change. Twenty farthings. That be the price now." The rivermaster thundered, unmoved.

Solweig guessed at her chances of getting aboard. She guessed them to be slim. She had become completely absorbed by the refugees on all sides. The crowd had swallowed her up. Sitting on her bay, she had become a very conspicuous island in the midst of heads and shoulders.

And yet it wasn't enough. She was still too far from the bank of the river where the ferry approached. Beyond charging blindly forward and throwing the peasants asunder, there was still no way to force herself to the front. All eyes were turned to the ferry, a sorrowful collection of wooden logs lashed together. A few peasants actually waded waist-deep in the water to try and climb aboard, arms outstretched, hands raw and chapped from the cold.

"Get back!" shouted the rivermaster. "Get back, or you'll be pulled under. I won't stop 'till the next load, and I'll only take those who have two feet on the ground." The three other rivermen echoed his warning.

A few ragged travelers grudgingly assented, pulling themselves back up the bank. Those few who stoutly remained, or those who could not wade out of the way quickly enough were roundly shoved back by the algae-clogged tips of the poles. A man was struck in the hip and dropped down to the knee, a woman jabbed in the chest fell backwards into the river and did not reemerge.

"You've gone and killed her!" someone roared.

"Can anyone swim here?" hollered another.

The crowd, moving as one and enraged by the scene, began to surge forward, literally pushing against the mare and pony. The animals grew confused and galloped suddenly forward. Not expecting the impulsive jerk, Solweig nearly tumbled from the saddle and under the feet of the crowd, or would get tangled in the stirrups and dragged behind the horse. It was only the firm grip of her legs, experienced and strong from many years upon the back of an equine that saved her from tumbling. She looked back in her wake, fearful, but quaked with relief when it seemed that the people were relatively unharmed. They threw a few curses her way, but curses were acceptable, whereas shattered ribs and crushed skulls were not.

Solweig quenched her anger at the mare – it was not the old girl's fault. She patted her mane absently. It seemed that a few men had dived into the river and now escorted out the woman who had been pushed underneath. She was wet and shivering, but she was alive.

Now the ferry hugged the bank, and the travelers nearest to the rivermen waved pouches filled with farthings in the air, trying to book passage across. A small few tried to shove their way aboard, but they were easily spotted as frauds and were promptly knocked away by the rivermen, or pulled back by the angry crowd who demanded fair share.

"I'm to inspect every one of you seeking passage, and if you don't have the coin to pay for both your grandmother and your chattel, you'll be forced to choose which one you love best and be prepared to leave the other on this side of the river!"

Solweig had enough pieces hidden in her skirts to cover the toll, but she hadn't counted on the steepness of the fare. She still had to consider an inn on the way to Minas Tirith, not least of all when she made it to the city itself, plus the necessary costs of food. All the same, judging by the sizable mass of the throng, she'd be stuck here well past nightfall unless she found another way across.

She looked upon the distant shore with troubled eyes.

She misliked this alternative, but saw no other end in sight. With a light slap of the reins, the mare and pony started forward slowly. At this pace, the refugees, tightly packed as they may be, were still afforded more time and more room with which to step out of the way.

…But it was not towards the bank that Solweig steered her mount.

She moved parallel instead, facing the White Mountains. If she continued this direction long enough, she would eventually be returned to Edoras. Yet her goal was not far. She continued five minutes more, edging slowly away from the crowd. It had clustered only by the ferry and ignored all other reaches of the river.

Like most people of the Mark, Solweig could not swim…but horses could. She bunched her cloak up, gathering it in her arms as best she could. Then she rounded, stared long and hard at the river, and then sent her steeds forward. The Snowbourn was not deep, but it was wide, and when she was a third of the way across she began to feel the water seep into her boots, then pool around her knees, and then her thighs. The horse and pony were not overburdened, as Solweig had feared, but they snorted and complained as they kicked their way slowly across.

Solweig felt fortunate – during the spring, when the snow from the mountains melted and flowed into the Snowbourn, the river rose many more hands high, and rushed with fierce undercurrents that were wont to drag swimmers beneath the surface.

Although she was now halfway across and submerged to the waist with no problems yet, there were always dangers to be wary of. She glanced to the left, and saw most of the confused – or baleful – stares of the immigrants. If not for her horse, she would have been just as helpless and stranded as they.

Solweig tried not to look back.

* * *

><p>Four hours had passed since the crossing, and her pleated, layered skirts had still not dried. The thick wool absorbed the water, and despite her multiple attempts to squeeze it out, the liquid seemed ready to stay. She had considered stopping behind a fallen boulder and allow her clothes to dry while she grabbed a fresh pair from the pack, but the night fell quickly in winter, and she did not enjoy the thought of being caught out there alone in the dark.<p>

As the sun dipped lower, a veil of fog descended upon the vale of the Eastfold, thick and cloying. It peppered Solweig's exposed skin with droplets of precipitation, and her teeth began to chatter. She huddled against the neck of her mare for what felt like an eternity and her eyelids drooped, heavy with fatigue. She was no inexperienced rider, but two full days upon the back of a horse exacted its price on her body. She needed to find an inn – and soon, but she was lost in the fog, and relied only upon her sense of direction to guide her path.

Only once during the long march through the grey sea did any evidence of life greet her. She almost would have missed it, if not for the pony's braying cry when a rock lodged itself between shoe and hoof. Solweig was forced to stop and pry the stone free. After she did so, she just happened to look up and witness a shadowy family in the distant horizon. She made out only indistinct, blurred shapes, loping silently through the nighttime mist. The fine hairs on her neck pricked up, and the skin of her arms was raised to gooseflesh. It was a powerful image, those lonely travelers traversing the vacant darkness. Soon they vanished, consumed by the rolling vapor.

Solweig gazed at the point where they faded from view for a long time after. She never did quite forget that moment, nor understood the feelings that overcame her in the loneliness of that point of time, which seemed to stretch on forever, but which had happened in under a minute.

Solweig could not guess the minutes or hours that had passed since the strange sighting, but finally her long journey was again punctuated by a spark of life. The warm yellow glow of a lantern was like a beacon in the fog, and she could not help but laugh with relief when she saw it. When she was close enough to ascertain the outline of a building, she looked up, seeing the swinging sign of an inn. She did not bother to note its name; its purpose and facilities were all that she needed.

Solweig did not trust the unfamiliar territory enough to lead her horses to stable without some manner of guide assisting her. She rapped on the door with her knuckle, unwilling to go inside when her equines were not properly secured. When no immediate response made itself apparent, she tried again.

This time, a tired-looking innkeeper emerged, cleaning his hands in his apron. He looked her over once and lifted his eyebrows in undisguised surprise.

Solweig, exhausted and filthy from her journey, thought that his incredulity was directed at her shoddy appearance, forgetting once again the fine cloak and hood that she bore.

"My money is as good as any man's," she said imploringly, reaching for her coin pouch. "And I'll be here for no more than a few hours, I promise. I simply need a bed for the night – I'll be no trouble at all."

"M'lady," said the inkeep regretfully, "You mistake my look. I apologize, but all the folk that came through these parts in the past week have all been impoverished farmers, or something of their ilk. I was merely surprised at m'lady's presence. Uh, beggin' your pardon."

"You've done me no harm," she said, dismissing the issue. "What I really need is a simple room to stay in…" she bit her lip thoughtfully for a moment. "Can you grant me that?"

His hesitation worried her.

"…Well, m'lady, I've been receiving guests almost constantly all day, not counting the days preceding. I've been all out of rooms since mid-morning, even with travelers and families doubled up."

"'Tis fine, all I need is a place to hitch my animals and a bit of floor to sleep on. What of your stables?"

"The stables, m'lady?" now the inkeep unabashedly scoffed. "Suitable only for animals." He paused. "It is why the poorest peasants sleep there tonight."

Solweig's throat caught.

"Those poor dumb fools," he continued, "the shabby band that slumber in the mucked-out stalls paid nearly twice the fee for the rooms – that's how desperate they were for a roof over their heads! Can you imagine that?" he drifted off. "Well, I apologize m'lady. I would have kept a whole room clear for you had I known of your comin'. We don't get people of your caliber much."

Solweig tasted bile, and fought back disgust. "I understand. We all must make an…honest living," she said, rather stringently.

The innkeeper did not seem to notice that her revulsion had been directed at his own person. "I thank you for your generous understanding, m'lady. I bid you safety on your journey." He bobbed his head.

_Indeed_, she thought, _I'm sure you feel the same concern for the peasants you conned in the stables_.

She mounted the mare with a feeling of dread as she looked off into the vaporous night, surrounding them in all directions. When she heard the sound of the door close behind her, she slapped the reins and rushed forward blindly.

It was reckless, yes, but also fortuitous. Her vain hope, her goal, was to find a hilly purchase from which she could climb, leading the horse and pony up out of the mist. It was a small incline, taking longer than she would have liked, but eventually they found themselves above the swirling fogbank that covered the land. The rocky summit of the cliff was covered in a sparse outcropping of spruce and pine, towering straight and tall. There were many furrows that wrinkled the crest, troughs of collapsed dirt that had been widened further by erosion. Solweig picked her way carefully around them until she found a deep, ample channel that was relatively clear of debris and decaying plant matter. She dismounted and carefully led the horse and pony into the ditch. When she was satisfied that there would be enough room, she forced the animals down. They tossed their heads in protest at first, but then lay on the ground without complaint. She checked them carefully, making fully certain they would not begin to roll as she slumbered and injure themselves in the process. The animals were scared and uncomfortable – as was she – but she did not want any prospective night-time thieves to lead the animals away as she slept, leaving them unguarded.

When she had satisfied herself that they were safe enough to sleep away the last few hours of darkness, she adjusted her cloak around her body, trying futilely to keep the cold away.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**

Reviews feed the starving authoress – a well fed authoress means faster updates. *confetti*

Please give me feedback about Solweig's character – do you care about her travels? Her hopes and struggles? Do you dislike her? Do you like her? Are you neutral about her? Do you have suggestions about what I can or should do with her?

Give me feedback of any kind, in fact. Is it too boring? Too fast? Too confusing? I especially want to know if these chapters are too long. Leave me suggestions if you'd like to see this head in a certain direction, and I'll do my best to see that I manage to work it in, if it's feasible, given the plot I already have in mind.


	4. In the Tower of the Sun

_The heroes hastened, hurried the liegemen,_

_Descended together, till they saw the great palace,_

_The well-fashioned wassail-hall wondrous and gleaming:_

_Mid world-folk and kindred that was widest reputed_

_Of halls under heaven which the hero abode in;_

_Its lustre enlightened lands without number._

_Then the battle-brave hero showed them the glittering_

_Court of the bold ones, that they easily thither_

_Might fare on their journey._

-_The Saga of Beowulf_

Solweig awoke under a blanket of freshly fallen snow, the higher climate of the cliff's crown more akin to that of the White Mountains than the ground below. She raised her arm sluggishly, shaking off the caked-on deposit of downy slush. Her fingers brushed her cheek and she felt the indentation of the hand she had slept on overnight.

She looked to the East, to the direction where she knew Minas Tirith eventually rose, and saw that the sun was not yet lofty. Judgment made according to the position of the celestial orb, she estimated that only a few hours had passed. Based on how well-rested she felt, Solweig believed it.

She smacked the horses' rumps, and they rose eagerly to their feet. Solweig shivered and drew her arms about her. Even her woolen garments and cloak failed to absorb the cold. Her exhalations transmogrified into a frosty vapor with each rise and fall of her chest. Solweig shivered and drew her arms about her. Huddling, she reached into her saddlebag for her morning provisions…and found it empty.

She gasped, unlatched the bag and dumped out all of its contents upon the snowy ground. Only a thin shift, her comb, Lynnea's letter and a few apples for the horses had been left untouched. She wondered at how the theft would have occurred. She took great pains to not be seen during the night – she was positive that no strangers had come upon their resting place, unsullied white snow covering their tracks or not.

She put a hand to her mouth. _Of course._ The crowd at the ford. The conditions were ripe for the breeding grounds of pickpockets, full of confusion, close quarters, an easy target…and poverty strong enough to drive anyone to desperation.

She had packed all her rations in there…her spare clothes, her mending kit, her slippers. All gone, save for the scrawny pile which remained.

Solweig supposed she ought to have felt sorrow or regret, but instead she was overtaken by a low fury. To be so _violated_! To be so abused by greed and cunning, dexterous fingers! She cursed as she brooded over the injustice done to her, ignoring the protesting rumbles of her stomach. She gave the remaining apples to the horse and pony, but furiously stuffed the other items into her pack, slinging it around her neck. She looked like a fool now, a brain-addled fool, but at least there was no second chance at thievery. The pack was light enough for her to carry and it hung sideways off her hip.

Solweig patted her coin pouch belted under her skirts, and was relieved to hear it clink and jangle. She had that much, at least. She wished a few dozen curses upon those whose sticky fingers had pawed through her belongings, incensed.

Solweig knew poverty with a familiarity that even a thousand years as a nobleman's wife would not distance. Although her family was freed from thralldom at an age when she was too young to so much as remember, she knew in her heart of hearts that they had been honest, hardworking folk. She grew up as any other peasant born in the wold of Rohan, accustomed to bruised skin and calloused hands, but her belly was often full when she went to bed and her nights were full of song. These things were accomplished by tilled fields and productivity, by labor and sacrifice. She could make the best of the life she was given – why did that seem such an impossible feat for those who had robbed her?

Solweig slowed her breath and put a hand to her heart, realizing that it beat like a war drum in her chest. She was filled with righteous fervor, and yet she had no right. Would she not do the same had their places been exchanged? She could not be sure…but if for Fastred…well. Solweig had no compunctions there. She would do anything, give anything for the survival and well-being of her only living child. Who was to say that the thieves – or thief – that had robbed her was not a desperate mother, seeking warm clothes to wrap her children in, or food to nourish them?

Although Solweig was not, in her spirit, wholly forgiving of the thievery, she acknowledged that she had to consider that those people were not entirely different from herself, separated only by her own spot of lucky fate.

As she and her horse descended the mild gradient of the cliffside, she pondered further the plight of the refugees. It was not merely the forces of nature that deprived the people of the basic needs of life…it was the forces of man that conspired against them. Solweig remembered well the rivermen at the ferry, remembered how they raised the prices according to the deepening need of the stranded peasants, who were forced to concede to the rising demand or else remain stuck in West Emnet. Then the smiling face of the innkeeper came to mind, he who had seemed so kind and sympathetic to her cause, even as he amiably confessed to cheating the poorest of people, consigning them to a night in the stables when they should have been accorded a room or more. Solweig could not tell whether the politeness of the inkeep towards her person was based on her noble bearing, or the size of the purse he assumed came with it.

_It is just as well_, she thought, _that I did not sleep under that man's shelter. I will suffer no patronage of war profiteers_. _Not ever._ She spurred her horse forward.

* * *

><p>Solweig saw no more direct signs of the poor and the hungry that fled Rohan's borders, but occasionally she would spot the preserved outline of a set of boots in the muddied ground, or pass the ashy remnant of a fire. These were the miscellany of the truly destitute. They had left all they had ever known in search of a better life. It made Solweig's heart ache all the more for Fastred. The separation from her babe had pained her. His sweet, round face often afflicted her dreams. She had left him – temporarily – in the capable and loving hands of Holgier and Dagna, in whom she had full faith, but at the thought of the families she had seen, Solweig wondered if she had made the right decision in leaving him behind until she was fully able to care for him. The families might be poor, they might struggle, but at least they were there for one another<em>. Would it not have been better to at least be together<em>? She with all of Dagna's tenderness, even with Holgier's support, she wondered if Fastred was happy; if he was safe. She would have to content herself in thinking that he was.

When at last she splashed through the Mering stream and into the land of Anórien, a province of Gondorian lands, she saw a broken doll floating above the shallow bottom. The round, featureless head was ripped open, broken seams unable to preserve it, stuffing floating around it like a bed of soft cotton. Solweig wondered at the life of the little girl who had lost her prize, wondered how long ago she had passed through the Firien woods.

There was no road cutting through the forest, the last true obstacle between the capital of Gondor and herself, but there were many paths where the foliage was flattened and the ground worn under the trample of so many feet. There were infrequent moments, however, when Solweig caught herself steering the mare off the human path and onto a narrower trail that was likely only used by deer or hares fleeing through the brush.

She regained the peacefulness that had evaded her since the scene at the ferry, the loveliness of the wild woods and the tranquility of the life there soothing her troubled soul. The forest was bright and airy, dappled beams of sunlight casting radiant shades upon the cordate leaves. She was thankful for the breeze that rustled through the bowers, stirring her hair and tickling her face. It seemed as though this Gondorian woodland did not care that winter's grasp held the northern lands in its unforgiving fist. There was a crispness to the air that felt like autumn, but the trees looked like the burgeoning spring. Her high spirits were lessened and regretful when the edge of the forest approached. Solweig was thankful for the presence of the copse, which had sheltered her for most of the day. She was not eager to leave its boundaries, but she knew that it signaled that the culmination of her journey was very soon.

Indeed, as the trees gave way to vast, flat plains, bordered on the right by the White Mountains and on the left by the far distant tributaries of the Entwash, _very soon_ was likely too long a term to use. There was no doubt in her mind that she was in Anórien, for as she climbed up a small hill, Solweig gasped aloud. The grim mountains of Mordor lay directly ahead, black peaks jutting and ugly. Her heart quickened at the sight, although she knew there was nothing left to fear. No evil lurked in the Plateau of Gorgoroth, no foul Morgul breath blotting the sun from the lands. Indeed, the sky over Mordor was…pretty. 'Pretty' was a certainly not a word which she could comfortably use in the same sentence as 'Mordor'; and yet there it was. The same immeasurable blueness of the heavens that covered the world behind her was inexorably the same blue that lay beyond. Solweig had never really believed it possible.

"So," she murmured softly, "it was against the wickedness that skulked beyond those mountains that Éogarn and Éohilm died fighting." She felt as though she faced a well-known enemy directly for the first real time, only to find it vanquished and conquered. She was not sure what that meant to her yet. Solweig realized she should have been happier for it, been happier to know that because of her husband and son's sacrifice the kingdoms of the Men of the West still stood, but she almost wished she could have been there at the end, could have seen the cause of so much death and so much suffering fall against the bastions of light with her own eyes. This, she felt, would have given her a peace that she did not now feel.

She continued down the hill, banishing her ill thoughts. The plague of Arda was gone, and she would not pollute her mind by lingering on it.

When the ground flattened again, she saw the long curling stretch of river that was the Anduin. Sparks of light shot like sunbeams into her eyes, and she shielded her face against it, putting the flat of her hand above her eyes like a visor. At first she could not discern the cause of the bright pinpricks, but as she slowly approached, the source became clear to her. The light that flickered and bounced back was the glare from the tiled roofs of broken Osgiliath, so famously known as the outpost that valiantly tried to defend Minas Tirith from the onslaught of Orcs from the East in the end of the Third Age. Solweig could not see if the broken towers and crumbling walls had been restored in the months after King Elessar's ascension, but the sight of so legendary a monument was breathtaking. But if the city by the river was Osgiliath…

She lowered her hand and looked to the right.

There it was. _Minas Tirith_. The White City.

Solweig had never witnessed such a sight. The splendor and brilliance of the gleaming towers dazzled her eyes. It was like a dwelling of the Valar, so bold and beautiful. _This_ was the beacon of the West, the effulgent stronghold that pushed back the dark waves that threatened to drown the land in a sea of blood. Solweig had never understood why Minas Tirith had been named Mundburg in the tongue of her own people. By her reckoning, it was Helm's Deep that should have been granted that moniker…but now, when she saw the mainstay of Gondor with her own two eyes, she fully grasped its meaning.

The Rohirrim called it Mundburg. _Guardian Fortress_. Indeed, it was very much like a guardian, as solid and ever-lasting as Mindolluin, the mountain into which it was built. Solweig had never been so struck by awe as she now was. The white turrets, so blinding and pristine, the proud standard of Gondor that hung from every tower…_this_ was what Éogarn and Éohilm died defending. It was not against the strength of Mordor for which their lives ended, it was for _this – _for Minas Tirith, for Rohan, for the peoples of the West and beyond.

Even when Solweig looked upon the Plains of Pelennor, where she had expected to see the remnants of death and terror, she saw only life. She saw the fields of gold, the wide realm of hope, hope that had endured and grown. Solweig smiled.

* * *

><p>She passed beneath the great gates of Minas Tirith with no difficulty, stating her purpose and the lands from whence she came. It had seemed as though the massive, ornate entrance into the City of the Guard was of a brighter, keener sheen than the walls surrounding it when Solweig was close enough to examine more thoroughly. She sat up a little straighter in her saddle when he realized that it might have been replaced since the terrible battle when the forces of Mordor swarmed into the city.<p>

Minas Tirith teemed with life, but its dark-haired people seemed fewer in number than she would have expected. Indeed, if anything, Solweig saw evidence of more of her own people dwelling on the steps, or resting under lintels. This bemused her, and spoke as a testament, perhaps, to the great sacrifice of the people of Lebennin, Ithilien, Anórien and Lamedon, the greatest fiefs under King Elessar's domain. If the Rohirrim that had settled this city so chose to stay, would the people of Gondor and Rohan one day mix, interconnecting in a bond more powerful than that of two allies?

As Solweig rode up the higher levels with no particular destination in mind, the sheer grandiosity of Minas Tirith astounded her. Were all Gondorian cities this immense? The possibilities that could be contained within were almost intimidating in its scope. The size of the population that it held was seemingly infinite. She would not be surprised if the entire citizenry of Rohan had been gathered together and lined one by one in the city's streets, there would still be ample room to house their belongings, horses and still yet leave room to spare. As a simple woman from Rohan, in which no real cities existed, this pinnacle of Gondor, this fantastical stronghold, was as something created by Eru Ilúvatar_ – the Allfather Himself._

And yet, as before, there were small things she noticed, little indications of the battle that had left its mark upon the city. She had passed masons repairing bits of street or gateway where the stone was scored and chipped. In other places it seemed as though entire chunks of Minas Tirith were ripped away, great blocks of buildings having crumbled or battered by projectiles flung by the siege weapons of the enemy. But even this could not diminish its greatness in her eyes. If anything, it displayed to her the steadfast nature of Gondor. It had changed much since its first ancestors arrived upon the shores of Middle-Earth, but it had persisted. And likely it still would.

She climbed and climbed, hopelessly lost but enthralled and happy, happier than she had been since the Battle of the Hornburg, when it first seemed that a little more joy and beauty had left the world. But here she was, in a land so enchanting and mysterious to her eyes. Finally she reached the uppermost echelon of the sixth circle and found herself in a wide courtyard, where the stone was as smooth and clear as glass, and the breeze was cool and flowed freely. She had never been so high ever before in her life. Despite the walls, she felt as though she and horse and pony would be pushed and tumble inexorably over the side. She kicked her heels gently into the side of the mare, and looked out across the landscape. Solweig was quite taken with the view and was absolutely positive that she would one day like to return to Gondor, to come to Minas Tirith with no summons, no tasks to complete. Fastred would like it too, she suspected. When he's older, I'll bring him here, and show him what his father and brother died to defend. A cloud of sadness passed over her briefly.

"You! You aren't supposed to be up here!"

Solweig perked up, startled out of her reverie. A Gondorian guard in full hauberk and tear-drop helm appeared at her side. He gripped his pike tightly, but he did not seem ill-at-ease around a woman clearly as oblivious as she seemed to be.

"I apologize," she said quickly. "I meant no harm done by this. I received a summons by House Berangár and I know not where to find them." She reached into the saddlebag that hung from her shoulder and produced the letter. Solweig did not know if ordinary guards of Gondor were literate, but he recognized the seal easily enough.

"Yes, so I see." He nodded, satisfied. "Well, you won't find them here. This way leads to the Citadel and the Seventh Tier, where the White Tree stands. Only those who have business with the King or his Steward are allowed beyond this gate. You'll find the manse of House Berangár on the Fifth Tier, through the gardens. Show them that letter, state your business and all should be well."

"Thank you," Solweig replied. As the guard turned away, she hastily added, "What fate has the King decided concerning the people of the Mark?"

The guard's eyebrows might have raised, but she could not see it from behind his helm.

"That's a question we've all been asking. So that's where you're from, then? I wondered at it. Your questions and your accent marked you as a stranger, but I was not sure from whence it was you came. Sometimes the people of Andrast are just as queer, if you'll forgive me for saying so. They're Gondorian in naught but name, it seems. Well, at any rate, you certainly aren't a refugee. If you're looking for a place to stay, the _White Tree _would be the place to go." At her questioning look, he added, "Third Tier. Across from the marketplace. The prices may be steep, but you'll find no softer beds than there."

"Thank you once again," Solweig said, thankful that he had answered the question she was too afraid to ask. "I'll be on my way."

"See to it," returned the guard, not unkindly.

She turned the mare around, but not before sparing one last look out at the valley below. Solweig wondered at the view of the Citadel. What did King Elessar think as he looked out upon his lands? Did he admire them as much as a stranger could? Perhaps so, for according to rumor, the King spent much of his life in self-imposed exile…if, of course, the rumors were to be believed to begin with. Solweig expelled the thought and returned back down the street she had come from.

Solweig fully intended upon attending her summons, but then a rumble came from her gut and she realized she had not eaten all day, nor even the night before. Now that she knew what to look for, she had no difficulty noticing the garden on the Fifth Tier. It looked lush and inviting, but the call of her stomach was the more powerful pull. The guard had mentioned a marketplace on the Third Tier, and surely they had provisions that they would be willing to part with for a bit of coin. It became quickly apparent to her that as she descended, the wealth of the people steadily decreased. Stately manors built into the side of Mindolluin on the Sixth Tier gave way to tightly-packed apartments on the Third. All the same, it seemed to Solweig that even the poorest of Gondorians that resided in Minas Tirith lived like a lord. A great lord, at that.

The market bustled in the hour of high noon, where wives bade their children run upon errands and spoke to sisters and daughters in light voices. The market was huge, filled with just enough foodstuffs to support a populous as thriving as that of Minas Tirith. It spanned the width and possibly even the length of Edoras in scale, filled with plump vegetables of which kind Solweig had never seen, and freshly-sliced meat where the butcher collected the fat in a bowl and packaged it to cook with. Much to her embarrassment, Solweig's stomach made another loud protestation. She would have thought that the commotion of the busy square would have stifled the piteous sounds of her starvation, but it did not go unnoticed.

"Sweet Eru's breath! Don't you tell me that you've gone without food, poor dear. Your hair and dress speak words!" An old, bent woman said at Solweig's elbow. She had lovely eyes, clear and grey and untouched by the age of her body. The multitude of wrinkles set at the corners of her eyes gave her a shrewd look, but the deep lines of her mouth said that she was quick to smile.

"Do they make it that obvious that I'm a woman of Rohan?" Solweig said, a little self-effacingly.

"Valar, no! It's the state of disarray that marks you as a traveler. And my nose tells me that you're due for a good, clean bath as well."

Solweig's eyes widened, and she chanced a tentative sniff at her shoulder.

"Come, I've plenty of food at home to fill your belly and mine."

"Not that I don't appreciate your offer – for I do! I appreciate it greatly." She put a hand to her heart to illustrate her sincerity. "But there are surely thousands of Rohirrim in the city. Why does your offer extend to me alone?"

The old woman gave her a keen look, equal parts mocking and mischievous. "And just who's to say that it's been only you?"

Solweig inclined her head in acknowledgement. "You're right, it was foolish of me to assume."

The old woman leaned on her cane, a knobby old piece of wood that was almost as lined and gnarled as the woman's hands. "It was foolish of you, but it wasn't incorrect." She gave a wink. "Fact is, I watched you since you passed the market on your way up. You've got a reason for being in Minas Tirith, and I aim to know what it is."

Solweig smiled ruefully and confessed, "It's not that interesting, in truth."

"Nonsense." The old woman waved it away. "Everything is interesting if you've got the right attitude about it." She tapped a bony finger to her temple, then leaned in and put a hand to the side of her mouth. "Excepting my third cousin's stories. I could pick my nose and be more entertained."

Solweig laughed so loudly and so fully that she startled people at a vendor's stall five carts away.

* * *

><p>The old woman's name was Nínim. She was proud of that name, and had shared its meaning at least three times on the way back to the apartments in which four generations of her family lived and worked together. "Nínim – that's Sindarin, so I've been told. My father knew the elves in his youth, or so he always claimed. I never did ever meet any of them, though. Not before he dropped dead of fever. But he had said to my mother, 'Name her Nínim.' And so she did. Do you know what it means?"<p>

"Snowdrop?" Solweig asked in dry amusement. She had become very familiar with this story already.

"Yes, yes. Snowdrop. That's a flower, it is. I've kept up the tradition among my family. I named my first daughter Ninglor. That's—"

"Golden Water-Flower?" Solweig questioned lightly, in a gently teasing tone that Nínim either did not notice or did not care to acknowledge.

"Yes, Golden Water-Flower. I think it's sillier than Ninglor, although she had always insisted on being addressed by that when she was a child. I just called her Ninglor instead. 'That's your given name, girl, and that's how I'll call you.' Oh, how she stamped her feet and threatened to stop breathing, but I think she liked it just as much. She's kept the tradition too, and named her daughter Niphredil, after a pale winter flower. That's really a snowdrop. Ninglor was always stubborn and difficult, but I think that's her own way of saying she loves me."

"Just how many grandchildren do you have?" Solweig asked, eager to avoid a fourth go-around of the tale of her family's namesakes.

"Twenty-three."

Solweig nearly fell off her horse.

"And you haven't asked about my great-grand children."

"…How many great-grand children do you have?"

"Seven. For now. More are on the way, and if Eru so chooses to grace my family, I'll live to see most of them."

Solweig did not forget that it was Nínim's household in which she was to stay. "Surely not all of them still live under your roof?" Her question was perhaps a bit too diaphanous in nature, for Nínim grinned, showing gaps in her smile.

"No, no, just a few of my daughters and sons and grandchildren remain. They think it a kindness to keep an old woman company."

"Well, isn't it?"

"Perhaps." Nínim stared up at Solweig out of one narrowed eye. "Or perhaps they make a racket and get in my way when all I want is rest!" But the laughter in that unconcealed eye suggested otherwise.

Nínim was in trim shape for a woman so bent and haggard. When in the market, Solweig had offered to allow her to ride upon the back of the pony, to spare her the effort of walking and allow her respite. Nínim had demurred upon the offer, claiming that if her legs still worked she would put them to good use. "After all," she had laughed, "I want to get my fair share out of this old body of mine!" Solweig had fully expected to slow the briskness of her pace, but Nínim had kept up admirably. Indeed, when the woman launched into another round of vehement speech, she had sometimes sped up so much that Solweig actually needed to kick the mare into a trot.

She was quite taken with the fierceness of Nínim's spirit. She may have been something of an eccentric, but she lived her years with so much vigor and joy that all oddness could be easily excused…or, indeed, admired. She seemed like a hard woman to impress, and an even harder woman to live with, but no doubt anyone who had come out of a few years under her watchful eyes would be much improved in both affect and vivacity.

Within the first few set of turns they had taken, Solweig had already become hopelessly lost in the tangle of buildings. They all looked so much like the other to foreign eyes such as hers, but she knew each must have been crafted with great care. Nínim had lived in the walls of Minas Tirith since her own girlhood, according to her scattered ramblings, and it hadn't changed so much that she did could no longer recognize it. "It's like trimming a youth's beard. It may look different after you throw the shavings away, or grow it out, but it's still the same beard."

"An unusual allegory, but an effective one." Solweig commented mildly.

"Quite." Nínim replied pithily. "Ah. Now here it is. 'Tis a modest home, but it is mine."

"Modest, perhaps, but built with a strong soul," said Solweig in frank appreciation. Nínim's home was a compound of interconnected dwellings, built on top of one another, likely connected by stairs and doorways hidden inside. The buildings were small and unadorned, made for function over aesthetics, but they were built with a solid pride.

Nínim seemed to have known that Solweig would have answered as such, and she grinned toothily. "Yes, so they were. We've expanded since then. My family, that is. They came over when the first Númenoreans settled this land, back when they had named this place Minas Arnor – and it was not yet Gondor's capital. You may be unable to believe it, but I was not, in fact, alive during those times."

"Forsooth, Nínim, I forget your age as much as you seem to."

"Oh no, sweet child, I don't ever forget it. My back would never let me!"

A little boy came bounding out of the door, arms outstretched in glee. Nínim bent forward in expectation to receive him as he fell into her waiting embrace. She squeezed him tightly against her before releasing him. "Go tell your mother and your aunts that I have a guest who will be staying with us for a few days. Tell them to prepare supper, and with haste." He ran back inside at her command.

"That is generous but unnecessary," Solweig said genially. "I hardly expect business will keep me that long."

"Oh, we'll get to that soon enough." Nínim said dismissively. "But I won't hear any complaints out of you. You'll stay among me and my kin, and you'll be better off for having done so."

Solweig was touched by this stranger's kindness. "You never really gave me an answer back in the market. Why help me? There were other ways to know of my doings without all of this sacrifice at your expense."

"It's no sacrifice; don't be so dramatic. And you should listen to what your ears told you. I _did _give you an answer. It's no fault of mine that you chose not to believe it." She paused, folding her hands together in front. "I was curious, as I said. I noticed your passing, as I said. What caught my attention? It was your determination, Solweig. Every person from the Mark has that same determination. But yours is of a different mettle. How is it different? I cannot yet say. That is, in part, why I approached you. I wanted to see for myself what manner of person you were and where your path would lead you."

"Not far, I trust." Solweig said, a little too lightly. Nínim's words affected her more deeply than she could understand. "I…think I know what drove you to approaching me, but I really only came to claim my son's birthright. I'll tell you about it later, if you so choose, but there's nothing much to my story."

"Not yet." Nínim said obdurately. "When you've lived as long as I have, you tend to trust your instincts. My instincts tell me that you've an innate strength that will serve you well in the upcoming months. Who can tell what dangers lay on the horizon, what with the threat of the Southron and Easterling armies."

"I can only hope to live as long as you for now, given such dangers," Solweig replied, dismounting. "And then I'll think of that mad old woman who I had once met, and know that she was right."

Nínim chuckled hoarsely. "Don't be so insolent. Where was that polite woman I had found with her stomach growling so woefully?"

With two feet upon the ground, Solweig was taken aback by the sudden shift in perspective. Nínim's height, difficult to judge from on the back of a horse, was greatly reduced. She stood barely a hand's length taller than the boy that had ran out to greet them. Her astonishment must have shown on her face, for Nínim scowled.

"Yes, yes, the old woman is the size of a child. You'll shrink too, and never look so good as I!" The scowl had difficulty maintaining itself, and she cackled. "Don't look at me so, girl, or your face will freeze that way."

Solweig smiled to herself, back turned, as she began to unlatch the saddle.

"Don't trouble yourself so. I have more family than I know what to do with. Belecthor!" She stamped her foot like an angry youngster. "Where has that lad gotten to?" she muttered hotly. "Belecthor!" A young man's head appeared from one of the windows, covered in dark, shaggy curls. "See to this nice woman's horse and pony, won't you?" His head disappeared back into the recess and he emerged from the house shortly.

"I'll take them from you, m'lady." He said, smiling nervously. He could not meet her gaze.

Solweig thanked him, walking away when Nínim took her by the arm. "He finds you pleasing to the eye." Nínim winked. "Come. Walk with me. You'll need to stretch after so many hours on a horse. It'll be a wonder if you don't get saddlesores."

"Hopefully it won't come to that. It feels good to use my own feet again." Solweig confessed.

"Ah ah ah, you see? And you wondered so much when I refused to sit on the back of that animal."

"Yes, you were right."

By the way Nínim preened, it seemed she was accustomed to hearing so. It might have been prideful, but Solweig suspected that it was usually deserved.

"So, Solweig of Rohan, why do you travel alone, and with a saddlebag upon your back? Is there some reasoning behind the custom, or is it meant to confuse us Gondorians?"

"I travel alone because there is no one else to accompany me. I have one babe at home – a boy, Fastred – and I lost everyone else as the years passed. My eldest and my husband were taken in the war." Saying it aloud to Nínim was not as hard as she thought it would be. "I was robbed on my way here. At the Snowbourn river, a throng surrounded my pony and likely plucked out my goods. When I discovered that, I slung the saddlebag around my neck, determined not to let the event happen again. It is not heavy."

"Not heavy, no, but silly." Nínim chuckled, but she quickly lost her delight. "I am sorry for the troubles you have encountered on the road, and for the troubles that came before. We have all of us experienced loss in our own ways. But I was right," she flashed a cheeky look, "My instincts were most certainly right. You've the will to continue forever forwards, but also the skill and resourcefulness necessary to carry it through…even if it does make you look like a fool."

Solweig smiled. "Yes, even if it does. But I think I am now more sympathetic to my pony's line of work."

"Tell me," said Nínim, "What's all this you mentioned about your son's birthright?"

"My husband was a true man of Rohan, but his mother was a noblewoman of Gondor. She may have married a lord of the Riddermark, but her spirit never truly left Minas Tirith. When word reached her that my husband died, she sent me a summons. Rather, she sent my eldest a summons to come to her door and receive the titles and affects accorded to him as his birthright."

"But your eldest died, and your living son is too young; is that it?" Nínim marked.

"Aye, that's the truth of it." Solweig nodded. "I don't expect that Lady Lynnea will be terribly pleased to see me, but I'm the only one who can answer her call."

"I don't envy you the day you'll have to stand before a woman like that."

"You know of her?" Solweig was surprised.

"Oh, no. I know little of the workings of nobility, but by the sound of her, she needs a good talking to. I never would have allowed behavior like that amongst my girls…but ah, the great Houses do what they always have, and the opinion of an old woman matters little." She shrugged, as if to signal there was nothing that really could be done. "You'll have to forgive my saying so, but I never would have taken you for nobility had you not said. You speak with a fine voice and finer words, and you hold yourself well, but you seem of a different cut than always seems to emerge from the Houses. Unless the thanes of Rohan are all as you are?"

"I was raised as a freedman's daughter; a serf's daughter. I worked and toiled and at night was sometimes too exhausted to sleep. But it was not a bad life, and I do not regret it."

"Ah, so you were fortunate in finding a husband."

"I was. But it was not his lineage that attracted me."

"His spirit."

"Aye, exactly. And I think he saw the same in I."

"He sounds like a wise man."

"He was." Solweig said, and squeezed Nínim's hands affectionately. "I never would have thought to be so auspicious as to find someone like you. I have never encountered a woman such as yourself, and I find it…refreshing. Thank you for taking me in."

"Oh, it was selfish of me," Nínim scoffed. "I wanted a good story and I got one. It's been paid in full."

Solweig smiled. "Of course."

"Nana," the boy appeared again at the door. "Food!"

Nínim clapped her hands together. "Now that's something worth celebrating. Come inside, Solweig. I promise you that my girls can cook as if Eru himself was the guest of honor."

* * *

><p>She lingered with Nínim for a few days more, recuperating and truly resting for the first time in well over half a year. Nínim's granddaughters had given Solweig a generous gift in the form of fashionable Gondorian clothing. The dresses were simple but flattering, and Solweig was relieved to have a new set of spares. In return, she entertained the children with the bardic stories of Rohan, and told them of the valorous lady Éowyn. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan gained no small amount of fame for her courage on the battlefield, and the Steward's wife was still a strong figure in the life of Gondorians. Tales of the White Lady from a new perspective was popular among Nínim's family, and even a few adults had gathered before Solweig's tales when their work was done.<p>

"What of King Éomer's wife? What of Lothíriel, Prince Imrahil's daughter? Is she as fair as they say?"

"Fairer." Solweig beamed at the awestruck countenances of the children. "I have seen her a few times in the court of Meduseld, and she is wise and just. She glows like the sun, and loves my people like she loves her own. Rohan is better for her presence." And so the stories continued.

Although it pained Solweig to be about her business, she came to Nínim after the fifth day under her roof. She explained that she would have to announce her presence to House Berangár and return in the day hence to Rohan. She had lingered long enough.

"Well, it displeases me to see you go." Nínim said dourly. "You gave joy to my family and you were no burden upon us. I'm afraid that I am now too old to ever leave Minas Tirith again, but you are encouraged to visit my family whenever it is you please. You and your Fastred are always welcome."

Solweig parted with sorrow in her heart, and dread in her veins. She did not know what kind of greeting to expect from the descendents of Berangár, but she doubted it was as warm as the family she now left. She returned to the Fifth Tier and found the garden once again. There was a footman at the gate, with the crest of Berangár sewn into the breast. She left her steeds with him once she stated her business and continued on foot.

The garden was exquisite in ways that she could not overtly express. There were no such luxuries in Rohan, where the rocky soil and rougher lifestyle allowed for no such creations. Not even Dagna's garden could marvel this; not in all of its width could Solweig see a single vegetable patch, nor a fruit-bearing tree. Not even in the spring did she think the garden would emerge laden with plump produce. It was all for the sake of beauty. Solweig had never imagined that such a thing could exist for the sake of sheer pleasure.

The garden was narrow but long, and it meandered between the lengths of two bordering manses.

When Solweig was positive that no one could see her, she stopped, running her fingers through her long, uncut hair and smoothed her dress. It was the finest of the gifts arranged by Nínim, a heavy gown the color of peridot. The fabric was soft but plain, nothing more than an embellished gown common to Gondorian women. It would not be enough to impress Lynnea, but Solweig found it lovely. When she was satisfied that all was in order, she steadied herself with a deep breath and continued down the path until she came to the massive doors of the estate. They were white and tall, crafted from fantastical seams of a ghostly-pallored tree. Two guards stood at attention, and one called after her purpose.

In response, Solweig held up the ruby-red wax seal of the House. He nodded once and allowed her to pass through the doors. She brushed her hand against them as she past. They were spongy; cork-like. The doors, for all their grandeur, could not hold up against an invasion. House Berangár was indeed lucky for the intervention of King Elessar, for not even the stoutest of barricades could have protected them against the forces of Mordor with doors as weak as these. It seemed that appearance, rather than function, was important to these people. Solweig could not say she agreed.

The inside was light and airy, the cool bluestone walls affixed with ancient tapestries depicting scenes most likely detailing the history of the Berangár. Natural illumination filtered in from the arrow slits in the high alcoves, creating shafts of pale light. A man approached her from an archway leading elsewhere in the estate. He had the manner and look of a scrivener. Although his mouth was set in a thin line, his eyes were kind.

"May I help you?" he asked in courteous formality.

"Yes. I come at the behest of the Lady Lynnea, mother of my late husband."

"You are Solweig of Gallgoídil, then?" The man queried in the same airy, polite tone.

"…I am." She was surprised her name carried any recognition whatsoever.

"Then I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady. I am Gaearon, the genealogist of this House." He gave a short bow. His hair was cropped closer to his head than was popular in Rohan, but it suited him. He was yet young, but his face began to show the lines of age, and his hair had turned to a brittle grey. "Please, my lady, take a seat." He outstretched his arm, leading to the archway from which he emerged. It was a small sitting room, lined from floor to rib-vaulted ceiling with book upon book recorded in Sindarin and Quenya. Gaearon followed her gaze, and seated himself after she did.

"Who reads all these?" she asked in wonderment. "The lady?"

"I do." Gaearon replied unflappably. "This is my lady's collection, but I go through the books, cataloguing the earliest mention of House Berangár's ancestors, from the men of Númenor to the elves of Valinor… the Undying Lands, as you might call it."

"Berangár was descended from elves?" Solweig could not imagine Éogarn, who was so much a man of Rohan, as one of the Firstborn's kin.

"Most Houses of Gondor are." Gaearon smiled. "But not since the First Age, at least for most." He lapsed into a brief silence, thoughtful. "I know why you came, but you will not find your answers here. Lady Lynnea has gone to the port of Pelargir, and I cannot say when she will return." His eyes darkened with some conflicted emotion Solweig could not recognize. "She did not tell me why, but I suspect."

"What do you suspect?" Why would Lynnea leave when surely she would have expected her grandson's arrival shortly after the transmission of her letter? Solweig realized she had lingered too long in Nínim's home. Why shouldn't Lynnea leave when no one came to answer her call? She had no compunctions to stay._ I've been such a fool! _Solweig thought.

"You must understand that I cannot say." said Gaearon. "I have known my lady for many years, and it pains me to consider her reasons. These are things she would have to reveal herself, in her own time."

"When did she leave?"

"Twice a fortnight ago." He replied.

"…Twice a _fortnight_? That can't be right. I was in Minas Tirith not three days after her messenger reached me, and he probably travelled even faster than I."

"She left twice a fortnight ago," Gaearon repeated in a measured tone, "But she left me with instructions to send off a messenger with that letter to you after the new moon. I cannot be sure why she waited so long. I suspect she wanted enough time to reach her destination, wherever it may be."

"You don't know where she's gone to?" Solweig nearly stood up. "She left before her letter even arrived, summoning me to Minas Tirith, and she's _gone_? Does she expect me to follow her to Pelargir? To follow her to the ends of Middle-Earth?"

A tortured look appeared in Gaearon's eyes, and he said softly, "Don't speak of such things like they were but a trifle, my lady. As I've said, I'm sure she had her own reasons. She's a private woman, and she often does ineffable things. The best we can do is keep up with her as best we can."

"How is that acceptable to you?" Solweig questioned pleadingly. "I am sure you know her far better than I ever could, but to be so manipulated…doesn't that sit unwell with you?"

"She is a difficult woman to know and understand, and it requires a great deal of patience for anyone to so much as attempt either, but she is strong and stays true to her convictions. She may have her peculiarities, as do we all, but I do not think she is so very different from you, at heart."

Solweig put a hand to her forehead, feeling a slight throb at her temple. "I just wish I knew why. Why would she leave? Where has she gone?"

Gaearon smiled reassuringly. "These answers may come, given time. There are many things I, too, would wish to be different, but it is not what fate has allowed me. Go to Pelargir. Find word of Lynnea, wherever she may be." He clasped Solweig's hands. "You will learn much from her, I suspect. She contains many surprises."

Solweig forced a little laugh. "I've had surprises to last me a lifetime."

Gaearon's smile only grew wider. "Oh, I think we can all do with a few more every now and again."

Solweig left with a troubled feeling. She had hoped to reach the end of her journey and return safely to Rohan, but it seemed it had only just begun. She would have to go south to Pelargir and seek word of Lynnea's whereabouts from there. She failed to comprehend just what would drive the woman to send a summons _after _she had left for some unknown destination. It made no sense to Solweig's mind, and that bothered her immensely. She mulled over these thoughts all the way back to Nínim's apartments.

Nínim's grandson Belecthor was outside, returning from his own day about the city. He was an adolescent, tall and gawky as he grew into manhood, and he had never fully been able to address Solweig directly, preferring to look at his feet or at the air just above her shoulder. His cheeks frequently reddened when she smiled. "M-m'lady!" he stammered. "I had thought…but, oh, I had thought you left us!"

"I did, but now I am back. Please tell your grandmother that I have returned and I would like to see her."

"No need, no need." Nínim hobbled out from the doorway, tying an apron around her waist. "Couldn't stay away from dear Niphredil's cooking, could you?"

"As much as I despaired parting with it, there is another reason that has caused me to come back to you."

"Oh?" Nínim's eyebrows rose. "This should be interesting."

Solweig and the old woman spent the next hour deliberating on the next logical course of action. Solweig was not overly fond of the idea of some directionless march to Pelargir, asking mercenaries and sailors of the passing of a Gondorian noblewoman through the port, but Nínim could think of no other option.

"I say you try it. If you cannot find her, then no harm done. It shall be her own fault and you will be no worse off for it. My youngest son will take you. We shall hitch your horse and pony to it, and you'll ride nice and pretty in the back, eh?" She did not look away as she called, "You _will _take the good lady, won't you, Belen?"

A muffled reply erupted from one of the other rooms.

Nínim cackled. "Oh, he'll take you. He'll have me to face if he refuses." She plucked a bit of dirt from under her nail. "How long do you expect to be gone?"

"I'm not sure where I'll even be off to, _if _I find word of her. No more than a week, I should imagine."

"Then in a week – _if _you find word of her – I shall send Belen back to fetch you."

"Aye, that's fair."

"I expect you'll be leaving in the morning?"

"I will. At dawn. Earlier, if I can help it."

"Then we'll see you off properly this time. We'll make a grand occasion of it." Nínim winked.

"By now," Solweig laughed, delighted, "I would expect nothing less."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**

Whoa. Was this too long?


End file.
